Lost Key

by Chris Niles

  Chapter Four

  “Morning, Capt’n!” Kate looked up from the parts strewn on her deck and waved at the lean black man approaching her stern.

  Beyond the few skiffs and dinghies tied up along the dock, a white forty-four-foot catamaran sparkled in the mid-morning sun. She’d met the captain of the Knot Dead Yet and his wife when they arrived a few days before. After they had settled in, they invited Kate up the dock to share a burger and a bottle of pinot noir. The couple were slowly cruising through the Keys, moving a few miles every couple of weeks. It had been the standard first night conversation, with talk of their early retirement and their travels. While the people chatted, Whiskey met their very spoiled Shih Tzu, Muffin.

  They’d asked Kate how she’d gotten Serenity into the shallow slip. The Knot was almost scraping bottom at low tide at the deeper end of the dock. But they’d wanted a slip with a sunset view. Sunset in the Keys is as close to religion as a lot of Conchs get, with many stopping wherever they were to pause and reflect on another day in paradise. This couple was no exception, and they seemed excited to share their first one at Shark Key with Kate.

  Kate had grown to appreciate the loose social connections of marina life. When she moved onto the houseboat, she expected solitude. But she discovered something better. Everyone was friendly, but no one got too close. When a new boat showed up at a marina for the first time, cruisers swapped introduction stories over a drink and sometimes a meal. Whenever someone needed a repair, the others would surely pitch in and help. But eventually, after a day or a week or a month, nearly everyone moved on. They were a community for the moment, but no one got too attached, and that was fine by Kate.

  “Been up for breakfast yet?”

  Between liveaboards and day charter guests, the marina’s restaurant did a brisk breakfast trade during tourist season, keeping a full staff of cooks and servers busy starting at 5:00 a.m. from December through April. But during the off-season, Chuck and his best friend, Babette Wilcox, usually handled breakfast and lunch on their own.

  Kate glanced at her watch. Ten after ten. Her breakfast had been an orange and a protein bar three hours ago, and she was already starting to think about lunch. “I was up at the office a little bit ago. Chuck’s tied up this morning, but I’m sure Babette can still whip you up some eggs and bacon.”

  The captain — Kate thought his name was Bruce, or maybe it was Howard — tapped his hat and nodded as he trotted past her stern and up the seawall to the parking lot. Kate turned back to the stubborn length of PVC. She tightened a fitting, flipped the water valve, then swore as it immediately started leaking again.

  Ten minutes later, Kate tucked her toolbox into the storage compartment beneath the aft deck. She’d have to go to town after all, but it could wait. She stepped into the dark salon. Like most residents of the Sunshine State, she kept the blinds closed in the summer so the poor old air conditioning unit had a chance of keeping up. In another month or so, the weather would finally start to relent, but she was already looking forward to letting in a little more light.

  She grabbed an old one-piece from the bedroom, changed, then launched off the bow of Serenity into the shallow salt water. She angled slightly to the north, settling into a steady freestyle pace across the channel, breathing every third stroke. Almost twenty minutes later, her hands scraped the sandy bottom of Halfmoon Key.

  Kate pulled herself onto the shore and shook off. The small island west of Shark Key was uninhabited, and the waters around it were so shallow, only the smallest flats skiffs and kayaks could reach it. Its narrow beach faced east, nestled up against the low mangroves covering the uninhabited key.

  Just inside the tree line, Chuck had placed a watertight deck box to store basic beach gear. She lifted the lid then rummaged through it for a dry towel.

  I’ll swing by with a kayak later and throw all these towels in the wash.

  Kate made a mental note, but she knew she’d forget at least three times and Babette would end up washing the towels. She always did. Across the water, she watched the white catamaran’s mast sway as its occupants moved around it.

  William! That’s his name. William. William. William.

  She knew she’d forget that, too.

  Kate retrieved a red and green striped towel from the bottom of the box, sniffed it, shrugged. She shook out the wrinkles then spread the towel on the tiny stretch of sand.

  When Kate first headed for the Keys, she’d imagined huge swaths of white sand. In time, she’d grown to love the rocky shores and heavy growths of mangroves and seagrapes, but she was also grateful for the few sandy, soft spots in the area to rest in the middle of her morning swim.

  She stretched her body flat and focused on her breathing — the oxygen passing through her nose and down into her lungs, the slow exhale through pursed lips. Her belly rose and fell in time with the water lapping against the shore. After a few grounding breaths, she drew her knees up to her chest, rocked side to side, then rolled up to sitting. She eased through a series of yoga positions, her body shifting from pose to pose by habit.

  Kate ended the routine flat on her back, staring up at the clouds. Closing her eyes, she soaked in the briny smell of the salt on her skin. Tiny waves lapped against the shore, and the mangroves rustled in the light breeze.

  Her thoughts drifted. A different, smaller sky filled her mind. In her memory, she looked up a short concrete driveway leading to a vinyl-sided house where, at the end of a narrow sidewalk, its dark green front door hung ajar.

  Floating through the memory, Kate stepped through the door then across a small ceramic tile foyer. In the family room, a ceiling fan slowly spun, and an athlete sprinted across the TV screen. A rusty, metallic scent coated the roof of her mouth. She tried to will herself back outside, but her memory took her toward the hallway.

  Kate forced open her eyelids. The mid-morning Florida sun burned into her retinas. She jerked her head toward the thick bushes behind her and scanned for movement. An iguana scurried up into the shade and froze. Her gaze searched the empty shore then landed on the lizard. She pulled a deep breath of sea air into her lungs, held it, slowly pushed it back out. Kate counted every breath, every leaf on a seagrape bush. She counted driftwood chunks resting at the tide mark then dock pilings across the channel. Eventually, her heart rate dropped and her breathing steadied. She’d been running from the same nightmare for two years. No matter how far south she ran, it found her.

  Kate gazed back toward the marina. Whiskey sat at attention on the roof deck of her boat. They’d both grown comfortable at the marina, but the morning’s trouble was bound to throw both of them back into old memories.

  She gathered up the towel, shook it free of sand, bundled it back in the dry box. Took in the wide view of the west shore of Shark Key. It was a good place to stop running.

  Kate waded to where the water was waist deep, dove in, then swam back to Serenity.

  Chapter Five

  Vincent Holt wiggled his car into a spot against the curb a block from The Dollhouse. The car alarm chirped as he dragged his feet up the cracked concrete sidewalk. He hadn’t walked five yards, and his Hawaiian shirt was already dripping with sweat. Lush tropical plantings around all the historic vacation rentals taunted him behind their white picket fences. Shade for the rich tourists. Hot pavement for Vince.

  He’d done a lot of jobs for Monty Baumann over the years, and if he’d learned anything, it was that loyalty was his boss’s love language. And the man inspired it not by great leadership, but by threats and intimidation. Baumann owned enough of the Keys and the people living there that saying no to him was simply not an option. So when Vince’s phone chimed with a text summoning him to meet Baumann for a late lunch at The Dollhouse, Vince knew he’d be sitting at the booth ten minutes early.

  He stepped into the cool, dark bar. Settling into his usual booth near the back, he scanned the thin crowd. Two new girls twirled on the bar above a row of empty stools. A few men and two women sat at tab
les scattered around a tiny stage. In the center of the room, a group of rowdy twenty-somethings waved dollar bills at the dancers. A particularly loud one seemed hell-bent on convincing a redhead that he was chosen as Best Man because of his talents with the women.

  Vince nodded at the bartender. Two minutes later, a blonde appeared at his table. She teased the long neck of a beer bottle up and down between her massive fake breasts before resting it on a cocktail napkin in front of Vince with a wink. He felt both stirred and revolted.

  “Do you think I’d …” He looked her up and down, eyes landing in her deep cleavage.

  “I thought maybe.” She dropped her chin and tried to catch his eye.

  “You should know by now.”

  “Always a first time, once a guy gets lonely enough.”

  “Who’s to say I’m lonely?”

  “You got the look, honey. I see ’em all here. A guy’s got someone at home but wants a little spice? He’s got a certain look. A guy’s lonely? It’s in his eyes. You’ve got lonely eyes, Vince. Someday, it’ll be too much. And when that day comes, you know where to find me.”

  Vince stared at her chest. “Not likely.” He slipped a five-dollar bill into her cleavage then patted her back as she drifted away. The door opened. A thin, sallow man in a linen jacket walked to the bar then ordered a bourbon and water. After Vince caught his eye, the lanky man joined him. One of the new girls sauntered over to offer them a private dance. Vince tucked another five in her g-string and told her to get lost. Then he looked at his tablemate. “Little hot for a jacket, isn’t it, boss?”

  Baumann shook his head and swirled the ice in his glass. “I’ve got something for you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Nothing fancy, but it’s important it’s done fast and right.” Baumann’s pocket buzzed. He held one finger up and answered the call. It was more consideration than Vince had ever seen from the man.

  “He WHAT?” Baumann’s shout startled a waitress three tables away. He dropped his voice and slid deeper into the tall booth. “He still in the lockup?” He tapped his fingers on the rim of his glass while he listened. “Okay. Get a message to Axl. Tell him to take care of it before the arraignment.” He tapped his screen then dropped the phone into the inside pocket of his jacket.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Dumb-ass new kid working security for a site up on Big Pine got yanked early this morning, and he thinks he’s on Law and Order. Spilling his guts, trying to get a deal.”

  Vince cringed.

  “Kids these days have no sense of loyalty. Now, you? You get it. You’d never flip on me. Right, Vincent?” Baumann lifted his glass and leveled his stare directly across the table.

  “Of course not, sir. I’d take a bullet for you. You know that.” Betraying Baumann was unthinkable. But Vince was starting to get tired of living under the threat.

  “You know that old man who runs the marina on Shark Key?”

  Vince jerked his attention back to his employer and nodded.

  “I need you to sit on his place. Two things. The main gig is the owner. We had a bit of a disagreement this morning, and I need him to see his way clear to understand my point of view. The second is some meddling bitch lives on a houseboat there. Her dog did this.” Baumann slipped his jacket off his shoulder to expose a bloody, torn shirtsleeve barely covering a thick bandage wrapped around his arm. “She needs to understand that no one touches Monty Baumann.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Just understanding? Not out of the picture in a more permanent way?”

  Baumann took a slow sip of his bourbon. “Don’t get excited. You’ll only make things worse. Keep it simple. Deliver the message.”

  Vince laughed. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  “If it was fun, it wouldn’t be a job.”

  Vince clinked his bottle against the man’s bourbon glass then turned his attention to the girls.

  Chapter Six

  As the sun drifted lower to the west, the sound of an acoustic guitar floated across the cove. Kate’s stomach grumbled. She had a small grill on her top deck, but no matter what she did, she’d never match Chuck’s prowess with fresh fish.

  She unlocked the top drawer of her desk, retrieved a narrow accordion folder, then thumbed through sections labeled “Groceries,” “Phone,” “Fun,” until she found the one labelled “Eating Out” and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. She flipped to the one labelled “Beer” but found it empty. She glanced at the calendar and counted. Danny’s pension deposited on the twentieth. Three more days. She could go three days with what was already in her fridge. She moved the remaining cash from “Groceries” into “Beer.” Then she moved it back.

  She tucked the ten in her pocket, locked the desk drawer, nodded at Whiskey. Pulling himself up into a lazy stretch, he grunted, then wagged his tail once and trotted out the door behind her.

  Kate picked up a chunk of driftwood and threw it for him as they made their way up the lane to the wide deck at the north point of the island. Branson Tillman was still setting up, and about a third of the tables were occupied, mostly with locals. It was a busy night for off-season. Kate dropped onto a stool at the bar. Whiskey curled onto the floor at her feet.

  “Hey, Babette.”

  The broad-shouldered redhead turned, a huge grin revealing gaps where two of her teeth should have been. Babette and her husband used to live down the lane on the sunrise side of the Key in a used fifth-wheel with a wide deck. He died of a massive heart attack a few years back.

  “Katie!”

  Kate closed her eyes for a beat. “Only you, Babs.”

  “I’ll call you what I want ’til you sic Whiskey on me.” She winked at Kate and planted a cold Kalik on the bar.

  “Oh, sugar! Babs, I’m sorry. I’m drinking water ’til my check comes in.”

  Babette waved it off. “On the house. So’s your grouper platter. Chuck told me what Whiskey did for him this morning. Thanks for watching out for him. Old man wouldn’t last a day on his own, would he?” She winked, but the smile had left her eyes.

  “He’s not that old. Look, Chuck’s business is his business and none of mine. I’m just curious. How bad is it?”

  Babette’s face dropped, and she shook her head.

  “Hey, sweetcheeks!” A tourist a few seats down called out over the din of the sound check.

  Kate threw a glare down the bar and started to climb out of her seat.

  “Katie, no. I got this.” She turned to the sunburned man. “Hold your horses. I’m coming!” She patted the bar in front of Kate and shrugged. “Chuck will figure it out. Always does.” Then she fluttered down the bar and got back to work.

  Ten minutes later, a massive plate and a fresh Kalik landed on the bar in front of Kate. She stretched her nose over the plate and slowly sucked in the aroma. The grouper had been swimming in her backyard that morning and was on her plate tonight. Tidy grill marks stretched across the dense flesh of two huge filets resting on a toasted bun with a bed of fresh lettuce and homegrown tomato and a pile of steaming french fries. The filets were dusted with a hint of garlic, cayenne, and allspice. Just enough island jerk to bring out the fish’s meaty flavor.

  Kate pulled a chunk off one filet and held it an inch above Whiskey’s nose. The dog sat tall, drooling and trembling. She bobbed her chin, barely more than a twitch, then he snatched the morsel. It disappeared with one gulp.

  “Still don’t know how he does that.” Chuck settled on the barstool behind Whiskey and scratched the dog’s ear.

  “Training, that’s all. He knows who’s in charge, and he respects the chain of command.”

  “Thanks again for this morning. I’m sorry to have gotten you two involved in my mess.”

  Kate shrugged. “Your business is your business.”

  He looked around the bar, his gaze landing everywhere except on Kate. She took a huge bite of her grouper sandwich and waited.

  “We
ll …” he started, then paused.

  Kate offered a fry to Whiskey.

  “I’ve got a problem,” Chuck finally managed.

  Kate raised an eyebrow.

  “Look, this isn’t how I like to do things. Shark Key has been in my family for three generations. My grandfather came down here from Chicago when the railroad was the only way to get this far. He helped build the Overseas Highway. I’ve lived on this land my entire life, and I’ve never been further north than Hialeah.” He squirmed. “I’ve had offers on it from time to time — good offers — but this is my home. I was born on Shark Key, and I’ll die on it, too. It’s gotten a little tight the last few years, though, what with the repairs from the big one a few years back and new building codes and taxes and all. I had to take a loan against the property, and, well …”

  Kate listened as Tillman drifted into a Bob Marley tune.

  “A big-time developer from the mainland wants the Key. He wants it bad, and he smells blood in the water. He’s the guy Whiskey got a taste of this morning. I’m sure you heard some of it. And yeah, I missed a couple payments. I’ve been skipping or shorting them during the off-season for years, and it’s always been fine with the bank. I pay ahead when I can, and they let me slide when it’s slow. But this year is different. This guy is on the bank’s board, and he’s pushing them to call the loan if I miss the next payment. Which I’m gonna miss. Until the tourists start showing up in a couple months, I’m barely making enough to cover food and utilities and pay Babette and Justin. I hate even having to say this out loud, but I need help.”

  His eyes pleaded with Kate. She sat stone-still while her mind charged into a thousand dark corners.

  “Kate, your business is yours and mine is mine. I know you’ve needed space to deal with your demons, and I haven’t asked you any questions. But I know a little about where you come from. The trust fund and all.”